Notes from an American car nut in Exile.

Christian Slater Knox

San Jose, Costa Rica -    

         Approximately two months ago I found myself in San Jose, Costa Rica for reasons far too numerous to list here. Let´s just say that one thing I have never been accused of is being “normal.” Keeping that in mind, I was hired as an English professor at a private college in Costa Rica. Being a life-long car nut/maniac/enthusiast of the first order, I had my priorities straight. I had to assess the vehicular situation.

Motorcycles.  I noticed the swarm of motorcycles immediately: Tiny 125cc single cylinder machines of mostly Chinese origin that sport names like Formula and AJM. They weave indiscriminately through traffic in between buses, bright red taxis and old dilapidated diesel trucks. Sometimes, I spot the riders performing this suicidal motorized ballet with cellphone firmly in hand checking texts or changing their playlists…Their “exhausts” generally consist of a small chrome canister unimpeded by any actual decibel suppression.  As hordes of these machines whiz past they emanate an egregiously loud cacophony that assaults your very being with a syncopated thrumming.  I went into a dealer of these Chinese wonders near where I work.  Branded “Formula” and sporting bright colors and single cylinder ohv or ohc engines, they are cheap at $1400.00 brand new. I attempted to speak with a salesman but eventually gave up after I found myself pointing and repeating every other word. Did I mention that I arrived speaking essentially no Spanish at all?  Every once in a while I see a full-size Japanese sport bike or a Ducati Monster pass by but with lamentable irregularity.

Buses.  I had not ridden a bus with any regularity since I was a Freshman in High School. I have a vivid recollection of waiting for the bus after school one day when it passed me by, and I swear I could see the driver smiling. Without a car here, I have been relegated to being one of the many others subjected to the whims and caprices of the bus. Unlike in America, the buses here come in all colors and makes. They don’t have numbers, just small red signs taped to the front window.  In San Jose, there must be five or six variations at least. Even the fare varies from 200-500 Colones (about 25 cents to a dollar).  Costa Rica has almost no street signs or zip codes and most directions are in reference to something else. My current address literally states that I live at a three story grey house under construction fifty meters from the nearby grocery store.  Then there is the post office, but I´ll save that rant for another time. This systematic lack of uniformity and consistency adds to the general whimsy and sense of mystery that accompanies the bus riding experience. You don’t ever really know. Sometimes when waiting for over a half hour, I will spot my bus and stand up with anticipation and then watch it pass by at full throttle. Perhaps the driver was not impressed with my sincerity?  Some female friends of mine will literally step out into the street directly in the path of the speeding bus and force them to stop. I haven’t gotten to that point yet and besides, I don´t think it would work.  I guess it depends on what turns on that particular bus driver but, I don’t want to know.

             Several weeks ago I rode a bus to the gorgeous Pacific beach town of Manuel Antonio. The bus there was “directo” and made few stops. One of the few it made was at a small roadside stop sheltered from the elements but wide open otherwise. There was an array of snacks, freshly squeezed juices from various exotic (to me anyway) fruits, and an old man cooking skewers loaded with spiced meat over an open flame. I grabbed a slice of watermelon and a bag of caramel-covered peanuts and felt like the foreigner I was and loved it.

         The bus ride there was muy bien though devoid of air conditioning. It was hard to complain though as it only cost eight dollars (one of the few bargains to be had in Costa Rica).  On the way back, however, I learned the meaning of the dreaded “collectivo” moniker on the front of the bus. Instead of traversing the highway, this bus meandered through every switchback high into the scenic mountains and made stops in every “town” between the ocean and San Jose. At one point after I was already coated with sweat and fatigue, the bus picked up a whole roving band of young Tico riders who had been enjoying a little too much Pura Vida (Pura Vida is the national motto and literally means “pure life”).  They were wasted and proceeded to sing, talk, yell, gyrate and swerve all over the bus. The joy that I had been previously deriving from the majestic mountains and lazy herds of cattle out the window was now seriously diminished.  At one point, a cooler filled with ice opened from the luggage rack above me and poured a stream of cold water on my head. One of the girls in the group looked at me nervously. I was having doubts now about this whole Costa Rica thing. But it was the drunken kid on the cellphone that got to me the most.  He was standing in the aisle and frequently brushed against me. I was under siege and felt a wave of panic and claustrophobia. I thought of the late, great Southern comedian Jerry Clower and his hunting tale that ended with a man stuck in a tree with a raccoon and a wildcat. Concerned, his friend below asks “hey, are you allright?” and the man responds, “just shoot up in here amongst us because one of us gotta have some relief!” I was at that point. His voice was slurred, and the inebriated cadence of it was driving me insane.  My girlfriend saw the rising fury within me and casually remarked, “ Chris, why don’t you sit next to the window.” I moved and attempted to appease my overwhelming desire to start an international incident on this voyage of the damned.

        Cars. Most of the cars I see are patched together, worn, beaten and old. Sometimes I get to the point where a brand new Toyota Corolla starts to look really good. I never thought that would be possible, and it scares the hell out of me. Luckily, some finer example of automobile eventually appears to save me from a fate worse than death. Please, oh please not another twenty year old Hyundai with a chrome garbage can hanging below the rear bumper and a bright green fifty dollar paint job! Sometimes the savior will arrive in the form of a BMW, usually a three series ranging from a mid-eighties E30 to an E36 and even to a bright silver E46 M3 that I had the good fortune to see twice. Yes, it was a magical moment when I saw it again. A splash of rain in the automotive wasteland to keep me going.

           The other day while I was walking back from the gym, I saw a garage door open. To my complete astonishment, a mid-nineties Mustang stuck its prow out of the door. It had a tasteful Saleen body kit, 18” five spoke rims and a tantalizing authentic V8 burble. One of the great accomplishments of man so far to be ranked amidst the contributions of such luminaries as Beethoven and Mozart has to be the sound of a high-performance, old school, cast-iron, pushrod equipped V8 straight from the good old Estados Unidos.  It had 5.0 badges on its fenders, and I estimated it to be a ´95. I saw that car again at the repair shop near my house later the same day. The owner got out and I dared death by crossing a street packed with buses and bikes just to take a look. It was a worthy cause. The hood was propped open, and I spotted an MSD distributor, but otherwise the venerable 302 appeared stock. This would do. I asked the guy “Cuanto Cuesta” and I learned that he wanted $14,000. If I could just take it around the block; a very long block… and yes I was correct; it was a ´95.

        I stumbled upon a speed shop near downtown San Jose. There was a bright red Porsche 944 Turbo parked out front. Walking along the sidewalk a block away, I could only glimpse the tail, but my car-saturated brain had enough data to form a complete image.  Yes.  A 2.5 litre turbocharged intercooled 247 BHP four cylinder, rear drive, transaxle-equipped Teutonic driving machine. I remembered the TV ad from the eighties: “Imagine If you were a car….. you would be a sportscar, you´d be agile, you´d be turbocharged, and of course….. you would be a Porsche.” Inside I spotted a white last gen RX-7 with a carbon fiber spoiler with a wild-looking Nissan 240 SX parked next to it.

       Another shop nearer home contains three Corvettes, a Camaro, and several mid-fifties Jeepsters. I saw this site from the window of my bus on the way to work. Somehow the curvaceous audacity of the red Corvettes called to me with such profound intensity that I had to get off the bus, thus forcing me to once more dare fate by crossing the street. Did I mention how dangerous it is to cross the street here? The game Frogger is the closest approximation to this reality. It definitely forces you to pay attention.  There is a corner near my house that I call the “corner of death,” and every day it lives up to the name. The cars fly down the street, and as they approach the right hand turn, the drivers floor the throttle with special emphasis. This usually occurs at the exact same moment that I step out from the crumbling sidewalk. I stood outside the shop in a paralyzed state of grace for several minutes like a junkie let loose in a pharmacy after dark. I snapped several shots and quickly ascertained what I was looking at. There was a bright red ´85 Vette with factory rims, spoiler, Greenwood body kit and a huge subwoofer below the glass hatch. It was stick shift and was parked alongside an´82 Vette with a coat of dust. I recalled the ´76 I once drove as I studied those flamboyant, gaudy lines. It looked good to me now in spite of its being an automatic.  Next was a mid-nineties Camaro in black with chrome rims. I asked an employee, “Is that a Z28?” He said “No, V6,” and I responded, “no Bueno!”  Hiding in back was a C5 Vette in need of a paint job and missing its hood. There were also two Jeepsters. One had an LT1 V8 residing under its freshly painted hood. I asked for the owner and he introduced himself and his brother. I asked him if there were any car shows in San Jose, and he pointed at me “you make show!” Maybe I was taking this journalist thing too far…Mario and his crew at Centro Automotriz Valverde specialize in American cars, and with his limited English and my extremely limited Spanish, we managed to discuss Corvettes, Costa Rica and our mutual love of American muscle.

      As a car enthusiast in exile in Costa Rica, I have noticed some makes and brands that have long since abandoned the USA. As soon as I arrived, I began to notice the forgotten (by the USA) trinity of Renault, Peugeot and Citroen. I have a soft spot for Renaults as my first car was an ´83 Renault 5 complete with the massive folding sunroof and a penchant for devouring starters. I know the negative image that the Renault name conveys in the states, but I loved that little car.  I must add that when I was growing up, my father was a martyr to Renaults and their various, shall we say, eccentricities. I have added to this legacy and once owned two (yes two)´ 78 Renault 17 Gordinis simultaneously. I can also lay claim to owning an A310 Renault Alpine, even if it was for only two months. So when I stumbled upon the massive ten story Citroen headquarters with an array of their finest parked out front, I was amazed at the attractive and finished quality of the cars. I found a small red coupe called a DS3 very appealing.  The Peugeot Dealer down the street has a gorgeous retractable hardtop turbo coupe that I look at longingly from the window of my bus.  I have spotted several Renault SUVs with very pleasant lines that equal or surpass anything available in the states. How ironic that with these great products the French manufacturers are unable to sell in the most lucrative market in the world.

At times, I feel devoid of hope in this vast sea of automotive mediocrity.   However, with tantalizing irregularity, I will catch a glimpse of automotive Nirvana.   A gleaming white Mark IV Supra replete with polished aluminum rims, spoiler and tinted windows greeted me one evening as I left work. There I was shuffling along, staring at the stars, and quoting Shakespeare to myself in the darkness while inhaling the ubiquitous unadulterated diesel fumes of San Jose when I saw it across the street. It was stopped at an impromptu police checkpoint, and I saw several machine gun equipped cops step out from the side of the road to check it out.  Back in Mississippi, I once drove sixty miles out of my way to circumnavigate a dreaded Highway Patrol checkpoint. And no, it was not due to any intoxicating agents flowing in my bloodstream. I had no car insurance and knew they would give me a ticket.  Now I looked at the Costa Rican Supra. I thought of the pristine Mark 2 Supra I sold last year. This was the only time in my life that I have ever been grateful for a police checkpoint. For a moment, nothing else mattered but the mere fact of the existence of that white sparkling perfection on wheels.  I was tantalizingly close, and for a brief transcendental minute or two, I basked in its full, wicked-fast glory. I watched with the same fanatical devotion as either a devout Muslim at Mecca or an Elvis Fan at the gates of Graceland. I turned my head as the driver sped off into the distance with the rapturous melody of its potent turbocharged inline six reverberating off every surface. This was music, fine art worthy of the Louvre or the Uffizi. This was a mechanical symphony. I envisioned driving it full throttle all the way to the coast at night blasting Led Zeppelin or AC/DC.  I was in heaven and yet was cognizant that since I could still feel this way that I was still very much alive. There was hope yet.

            For the last month, I have tried in vain to buy a car. I have narrowed my search to an E30 BMW as it is a car I am very familiar with. I owned an ´89 325is and rebuilt its front suspension, replaced the gas tank, and installed a set of 17 inch wheels. They are fabulous driver´s cars. I have found several, but the language barrier on the telephone and various cultural ones have impeded my progress so far. I called one Sunday about a clean ´85 318i nearby for $1700.00, and the owner told me “family today. Call back Thursday.” Okay, I thought, “does he want to sell or what?”  I called back later in the week to discover that he had sold it. I have called about several other cars and attempted my half-baked Spanish. It starts out well until they reply with rapid-fire sentences leaving me completely lost.  No matter, I have a used car dealer across the street from my house where I was looking at a ´97 eclipse just today.  It was beaten up and had the grievous look of neglect. There was a chunk of rubber missing from one of its 18 inch tires. I looked at its 2.0 DOHC 16 valve four and could recall when these cars came out. I seem to mark my life by the cars I see, both old and new. They take me back to simpler distant times long since vanished. They arouse my deepest sentiment, desire, ambition and admiration. They make me feel glad to be alive. They guide me along to some unknown destination….I spoke with the owner for a while, and he handed me his card. “l’ll be back,” I told him as I walked up the hill to my three-story grey house under construction fifty meters from the grocery store. My search continues, and as I make my way through the machinery of Costa Rica, I am making new friends, picking up a little Spanish (with the emphasis on little) and continuing with a fascination that has defined or consumed (or ruined if you ask my ex-wife) much of my life since I was four years old and was officially dubbed “Car Man.”   Stay tuned….